Practical Magic
by Ridicully L
Summary: Tale of how a necromancer and two paladins accidentally killed Mephisto. Ch. 2 now up: The immediate financial future of the City of Rathma now rests on the hands of a very inebriated necromancer………
1. City of Rathma

Disclamer: Diablo II's character classes, items and monsters belong to Blizzard Enterprise  
  
Practical Magic  
  
I. City of Rathma  
  
Morty grimaced at the sadly mangled corpse at his feet. The fact that he could not recognize what it belonged to did not improve the plight of his stomach---of course, it wasn't that he, a necromancer in training, couldn't stand corpses in general. However, he had heard from dependable sources that the fate of students who failed the practical exam would, quite literally, teach the others a lesson....  
  
He fervently hoped that he wouldn't have the fortune to figure out whether this was true.  
  
"Ready, Mr. Wynmorte?" Said Master Azote in a tone which sounded like a head jailer's when his most troublesome charge finally confronted the electric chair. Most necromantic masters and students hated each other, which was expected of people who cursed each other five times a week. Morty and Azote, however, loathed each other (for reasons that would be divulged later). It was with a growing sense of foreboding that Morty took The Envelop from Azote's outstretched hand and extracted his Assignment.  
  
NAME: Apprentice Wynmorte TIME AVAILABLE: three minutes TASK: Summon one humanoid skeleton  
  
Morty's eyes widened in shock: One skeleton? A practical assignment this easy was unheard of, said the optimistic part of his mind. The pessimistic part, however, reminded him that skeletal assembly was the one thing he had never gotten the hang of. Even at his best, Morty's skeletons would be hard put to be described as homo, let alone Sapien. Azote looked triumphant.  
  
"One skeleton is quite sufficient, Mr. Wynmorte." He said softly.  
  
I'm dead. Thought Morty, fiddling his wand absently while pages of Skeletal Structure Identification struggled to resurface in his mind like a waterlogged drowned carcass.  
  
"If you won't be using this corpse, please save it for the next candidate." Said Azote. He was enjoying himself. "Now, now, don't fret. you'll figure out the skeleton summoning in good time.... and perhaps, personally...."  
  
Trusting his life to a random memorized design, Morty, muttering arcane syllables and words of apology under his breath, waved a wand at his probable ex- classmate, who now twitched like someone waking up from a bad dream into a worse one. "About time." Sighed Azote with barely concealed disappointment. "I was expecting mushrooms...."  
  
To both's amazement, white smoke rose from the body and started coalescing. "Mr. Wynmorte," Snapped Azote, who was the first to recover. "Is there any chance that you possibly failed to comprehend the instructions?"  
  
"I did use the right summoning chant!" Retorted Morty.  
  
"For anthrax, maybe?" Smirked Azote.  
  
The smirk froze on his face when out of the white smoke stepped a pair of shapely alabaster legs, then torso, and finally the head of a woman emerged, shadowed by massive dark bat wings adorning her back.  
  
"What in Sanctuary is this...." Quavered Morty.  
  
"It's a succubus." Blinked Azote, as his pragmatic self snapped back into attention. "In other words, you have not followed the instructions. I must then, alas, fail you...." He was cut short when ruby-red lips closed over his mouth. "Mmm...." Sighed the succubus. "why need a skeleton when you have me?"  
  
"Der inshructions.... mmh.... reqrire a shelleton.... for passing.... " Mumbled Azote.  
  
Morty resisted the suicidal urge to laugh at his master being mugged by his "minion" while making a mental note to check whether he had been reading Skeletal Structure Identification upside down the night before.  
  
".... but in this case, I suppose the candidate deserves a distinction!" Gasped Azote, as the succubus surfaced for air. He then raced out of the hall at top speed, presumably for a cold bath.  
  
"Hey, that was amazing arghhh!" Wailed Morty, as a hundred pounds of demoness sumo-wrestled him to the ground. He watched in morbid fascination as a cat-like tongue gently flicked over his cheek.  
  
"Anything you need, master?" Purred the succubus.  
  
"Umm.... chest room?" Suggested Morty, trying politely to crane his head to a direction other than ahead, a move which probably could only be achieved by cranial dislocation. "Just so that you know, I, er, have a girlfriend....  
  
"Really, you're most kind, master!" The licking became rather more urgent now.  
  
"NO! That's not what I mean!" Gasped Morty, while trying to push the monster away without contacting any parts that might result in litigation. "Stop doing that to my face, will you?"  
  
The glowing mad slits of the succubus's eyes filled his vision. "Arghhh! Get off me! GET OFF ME!" Flailing wildly, he finally managed to un-pin one of his arms from under the, er, weight on top of his chest, and flung out a fist which caught the face....  
  
....of a river watcher that was investigating his nostrils.  
  
A young river watcher, to be precise. Morty sat up in bed, relieved for a second that the examination catastrophe had only been a dream. Gratefulness for reality could wait, however, as the river watcher coiled up in a defensive position on his bed sheets. Morty sighed. For the life of him he could never understand why his friend had this penchant for keeping hazardous animal companions at large in the bedroom. Morty rather preferred them to remain in a bone prison, or even better, a jar with the suitable preservatives.  
  
"Relax, relax! I won't hurt you!" He coaxed in a voice that, he hoped, resembled his friend Shaver's. It probably didn't. The River Watcher reared back threateningly.  
  
"Hreeeeeeek!" Screamed the reptile, launching a thin bolt of poison at his face. Morty's roommate, Shaffosky, entered.  
  
"Morty! There's poison all over your face!" Cried Shaffosky with concern. "Don't you know how much time it took for Trag'Oul to make that much spit? I've been giving him extra feed, too! Why can't you just stop provoking him? I thought the two of you got along pretty well last week---"  
  
"Only because I slipped him a sedative." Interrupted Morty, wiping his abused face with a towel. "Let's just face it, Shaver--- you're better off buying the stuff from Alkor than scraping it off the walls. It's not worth the opportunity cost."  
  
"Anyway," Said Shaver, waving a hand dismissively to indicate that such things as economics were beyond him. "It's about time you get up. You slept through the entire practical examination, you know."  
  
"I--- what? Did I miss it?"  
  
"Um, no. Yours, being of an exceptional nature, haven't officially started yet." Shaver looked at Morty curiously. "Don't you remember? You were there at the opening ceremony, too."  
  
"I was?" Morty continued to gape dumbly.  
  
"I see." Said Shaver thoughtfully. "Well, I suppose you hit your head a tad bit too hard when you fell, or else you are feigning a memory loss. Either way, there's no weaseling out of the deal now. Let me refresh your memory as to what happened...."  
  
To be continued.... 


	2. More City of Rathma

Disclamer: Diablo II's character classes, items and monsters belong to Blizzard Enterprise 

Practical Magic   
(Thanks everyone for the reviews! They certainly gave me a lot of ideas for the upcoming chapters… )

II. More City of Rathma

Ch. 2: The immediate financial future of the City of Rathma now rests on the hands of a very inebriated necromancer………..

Somewhere in the City of Rathma, located in the Southern Kurast Swamps………. 

Shaver began, "As scheduled, everyone was at the Hall this morning for the exam's opening ceremony. Master Azote went over the stuff you'd expect, like no cheating and whatnot. Then he mentioned the 'extra-practical practical'."

"What was that?" said Morty, still completely at sea. 

"Ah, that's one of the best-kept secrets undergraduates never get to hear about, although hot stuff for the rest of the city, apparently." Said Shaver. "You see, for most people the practical exam entails toying a little with corpses or, if we happen to run short on them, conjure curses. It happened that one of our founders decided that no, that's not practical enough. He started the fine tradition of sending the best and brightest of each class onto missions out of the city, which usually involve slaying some dangerous monster, retrieving artifacts, and in general getting into things with a survival rate of about five per cent---"

"Wait a moment," Morty felt a tremor on his sea of amnesia, like the warning of an approaching storm. "Are you telling me that * I * am the one designated for this quest?" 

"So you've finally remembered?" Said Shaver sympathetically. 

"Wait a minute--- WHY ME? That's impossible! Everyone knows I'm nowhere near the top of the class! Unless being friends with the top girl of the class count, of course."

"Well, Azote didn't actually say you're the top of the class," Said Shaver with a tactful cough. "but he did mention you're 'deserving'." He gave a shrug. "You probably do deserve something for pulling that prank on him last month………."

"But it was just a harmless bucket-of-whitewash-over-the-door thingy!"

"As I recall, it was quite far from a bucket of whitewash--- you unsummoned a blood golem right on top of him!" Reminded Shaver.

"Fine!" Snapped Morty in exasperation. "So what? He deserved it, after that time he discreetly iron-maidened my blood golem during golem boxing class!"

"I suppose it's because you weren't paying attention to your golem. You were talking to someone, I think. But I agree with you--- he's a downright bastard. Don't you want to know what quest he gave you?" 

"Bringing him Sszark the Burning's head on a dish, I suppose." Hazarded Morty. Something in Shaver's demeanor, however, suggested that this was an overly sanguine guess.

"Oh, no," Said Shaver with an ominous grin. "That was given to the last year's candidate, or should I say late candidate. I'm afraid the difficulty of The Quest tends to escalate each year." 

Morty gave a hollow groan. "Great. Do tell." 

"I'm afraid you may faint again."

"I think I've exhausted my stock of faint for the day. Just go on."

"Look at the card in your pocket." Prompted Shaver

Morty, with little surprise, discovered an envelop in his pocket much like the one he had expected to get for his practical exam assignment. The card inside read:

NAME: Apprentice Wynmorte  
TIME AVAILABLE: one day, starting from dawn immediately after the day instructions are received  
TASK: Breach the foul lair of the arch-enemies of Necromancy and murderers of countless of our brethren, the Paladins of Westmarch, and summon a fire golem to appear at the topmost window of the Southern monastery tower. 

Shaver observed his friend closely as the assignment flitted to the floor. His face was blank, as if he couldn't decide on which emotion to register. It finally settled for 'Aghast'. 

"I say, Shaver!" Said Morty with a wretched croak. "One just can't walk into a nest of paladins and light a fire golem on top of their bloody tower for ACADEMICS!"

"It's not academics, pal. It's an exam."

"But it's hardly practical!" Protested the doomed necromancer. A thought suddenly filtered through the haze of panic. "Can I choose not to take it?"

"Unfortunately, it's also somewhat MORE than an exam." Said Shaver carefully, as if picking over his words. "It's also, um, the most anticipated event of the year. They won't like it at all if you leg it, trust me."

"Who won't?"

Shaver mumbled something under his breath.

"Say it loud or I'll beat it out of you." Growled Morty.

"All right! All right!" Cried Shaver. "Your exam, you see, is also the cause for a little, er, sporting flutter………." 

Morty had always thought of his betters as grim, taciturn death mages who spent their time consulting spirits of the dead, brewing poisons and otherwise putting their minds and souls into things men are not wont to know of. Therefore he could only stare, mesmerized, as Shaver informed him that his exam was, in fact, THE most important sporting event of each year. 

He never thought of his betters going in for THAT sort of thing. 

Apparently, life in a dark dank dungeon, with nothing to brood on except what color the next skeletal mage was going to be, had its down side. It resulted in the kind of men whom, when there is any excitement to look forward to, leap at it like a barbarian on stamina potions to plank their entire fortunes on wild speculation. Hundreds of millions of gold pieces figured into it somewhere, naturally. All hell had broken lose in the City of Rathma as every graduated necromancer scrambled to place their bets on Morty's immediate future which, Shaver had heard, was not going to be a long one by public opinion. 

Currently, the favorites seemed to be "Death at the stake" (at five to two) and "Death by stoning" (at seven to three). Completing the mission AND returning was offered at five thousand to nine. 

"I shouldn't have told you all this…" Murmured Shaver. "But an awful lot of people will be extremely mad at you if you don't do your part…" 

"Which part, the staking or stoning?" Said Morty icily. 

"Well, that's not up to you." Said Shaver, unabashed. "But look at it this way: you'll be a celebrity!"

"Of course," Said Morty irritably. "I just wish I could stay a living one."

"All right, I have a better plan." Sighed Shaver. "If I were you, I'd pack really quickly now, run like a madman to the Kurast Docks and not look back until the ship touches down on the shore of Lut Gholein."

"You're right!" Said Morty, looking up as if light had just broken through the clouds. "You know, you're exactly right!"

Shaver grinned and handed Morty a sack. "Here, I took the liberty to pack for you. So long, friend. Don't spend too much time under the desert sun. I heard it's quite notorious for us creatures of darkness."

"So long, pal." Said Morty with feeling. The moment was rather spoiled as the door flew open and in came his friend of the more prejudiced sex, Robina.

"Morty! Thank Trag'Oul you're finally awake!" Said Robbie, pouncing forward to give Morty a crushing hug. "I was worried that you might have suffered a serious head injury from the fall. That would be a pity--- I know you so look forward to the quest!"

"Er--- yes, I got a bit carried away." Said Morty, much to his own surprise. Robbie's voice usually had that effect on people: it was very beautiful, like wind chimes tinkling in a cool sea breeze. Even her curses sounded like pleasantries. It made skeletons wish they had died earlier, preferably with better auditory bones.

If voices reveal anything about personalities, this is not the case for Robbie. All religions had their zealots. Now, the Priests of Rathma weren't that big on zealots--- what with their deity being Trag' Oul, the beast on which the world lay. It wasn't very zeal-inspiring to have a god whose best attribute was staying completely still. Nevertheless, what zeal the necromancers lacked was concentrated into Robbie, who, if the necromancers ever had an unholy crusade, would be the one riding foremost with the torch, crushing infidels like a huge hammer. Morty sometimes wondered what Robbie saw in him. He figured it was the same thing that attracted a hammer to a particularly stubborn nail. 

Despite needing to shield his eardrums against Robbie's fanatical proclamations at times, Morty still believed that Robbie was all right for him. Morty was what could be termed a necromancer skeptic: he wondered about things like, for example, why minions couldn't find their way down a flight of stairs without a map (or with one, for that matter), why revives only lasted five minutes, and why, in general, necromancy could hold a candle to the Prime Evils. Such were dangerous thoughts for one who required much willpower to hold others in sway. Robbie's presence certainly helped tip the scales down on the side of necromancy's strength. 

"I'm so proud of you, Morty!" Began Robbie enthusiastically. "Fancy being able to take an extra-practical practical! I do so envy you, though of course ultimately you're doing this for the glory of necromancy. I really wish I could go, but I guess they're just too conservative to consider it. Do you think it's a sexist thing, Morty?"

"Um, I don't think so." Said Shaver.

"Anyway, since you represent our class I guess that's an honor to us all! Oh, I've always known that you will go a long way!" Continued Robbie.

"But I'm not good at anything---" Began Morty.

"Of course you are good at something," Insisted Robbie. "I still remember you got a hundred marks for that bone wall you made. It's a marvel!" 

Shaver snickered. "I think Morty meant to summon a skeleton, but he just couldn't remember how the bits fit together."

"Anyway, I've worked out a way for you to make the most of your natural talent." Said Robbie in a conspiratorial tone. "First, you will climb over the monastery wall, and, as the first paladin approaches, you will hit him with dim vision, then cast amplify as you decapitate him with his own sword. Repeat the above to others until a crowd approaches, which is when you cast your bone wall between you and them, cast amplify again, and explode corpses like a mad fiend. When you run out of corpses, use lower resistance and pound them with bone spirits until you have some, then cast amplify and explode those corpses again. If your bone wall collapses, you can re-run the whole process from step (1), then summon the fire golem and come home for tea. What do you think about it?" 

All this sounded so pathetically easy that Morty and Shaver could only stare. "Robbie," Said Shaver. "You haven't, by any chance, put your money on Morty doing all this? It's quite a long shot."

Robbie looked aghast, as if she had been slapped. "Putting my money on Morty? How despicable! This quest is intended for a necromancer to go forth in the world, casting his spells in a practical way to uphold the ideal of Rathma! We all look forward to your success, Morty. There's a huge party in the hall held in your honor. I have to go help with it now. Do show up as soon as possible!" 

"What's that she said?" Said Morty, stirring out of stun lock as Robbie departed. 

"Step one, climb over the monastery wall and---" Began Shaver.

"No, I mean just before she left." 

"She asked you to show up at the party."

"Oh no…" 

"Hey," Said Shaver, handing Morty the sack. "You'd better run now if you want to catch that ship."

"I'm afraid I'll have to make a last-minute change to my original plan." Said Morty. It's one thing to run from Azote & co., but quite another to run from a party your girlfriend had just asked you to show up at. It wasn't very--- civil, he supposed. "By the way, do you know where my armor for official functions is?"

**********

Morty hardly saw Robbie during the party. He seemed to be perpetually greeting members of the aristocrat and senior death mages who, on a normal day, had as much regard for Morty as they would have for a passing insect. Now they tirelessly interrogated him, doubtlessly to check on his form and make sure he wouldn't turn out to be a dark horse.

Count Plutonius was one of the less tactful ones. The moment he appeared, Morty had the feeling that he'd be asked to summon a fire golem on the spot as a trial gallop, as if he didn't have enough doubts about his skills already.

"Greetings, Wynmorte." Said the count bluntly. "Is it true that you can't summon a skeleton? I got wind from my sources."

"I just have to concentrate---"

"How far can you do your golems?"

"Pardon?"

"I mean, how far can you summon them?"

"I don't know, I've never tried for far, y'grace." 

"Hmm. Thankfully I'm in at a good price." Conceded the count, picking a glass off a skeletal steward. "Here, have a drink."

Another figure rapidly approached like a galleon under full sail. "Really, Plutonius," Purred the Duchess Nightshade. "You aren't supposed to nobble him like this. The odds of him making it are low enough as they are."

"Let Mr. Wynmorte decide whether he wants a drink or not." Said Count Plutonius.

"Yes, I want a drink." Said Morty gloomily. "In fact, I want so many drinks so that I can forget all about this blasted affair. Pass the tray, please."

The party wounded to a blurry close as Morty downed his fourth drink, dimly aware of people debating whether he was in any shape to walk to the monastery before coming unstitched. Like the end of most parties, Morty's classmates, to express their gratefulness (doubtlessly for Morty's drawing of the short straw), deluged him with weapons, potions and runes of dubious utility values but nevertheless looked good as gifts. The senior necromancers kept a distance, but their supercilious glances suggested that their mercenaries wouldn't be seen dead in a ditch with that kind of equipment. 

Shaver gave Morty a flask with a little green liquid.

"Take this, Morty." He said. "It's venom I got out of triple-distilling Trag'Oul's spit. Extra-potent, I'd say."

"What can it do--- poison a hundred paladins at one go?"

"Um, no, but if you end up surrounded by a hundred paladins, drink it and it will save you from a most humiliating death." Said Shaver pragmatically. "I heard execution at the stake is exceedingly painful--- especially when they run out of wood in the middle of it. Dashed embarrassing, that."

"Haha, very funny." Morty decided. 

"Still, best if you won't need it." Continued Shaver. "I put a hundred gold pieces on your completing the mission PLUS returning. A double with somewhat remote odds, I believe, but just for the sake of Auld Lang Syne. Au revoir!"

Robbie gave a speech on behalf of Morty. It ran along the lines that the City of Rathma had its full support (barring financially) for Morty's mission, which, after all, was done for the carrying on of a fine tradition and striking fear into all enemies of necromancy, especially paladins. Anyway she said it in a tone so loud and sincere that half of the people in the hall briefly reconsidered backing a more optimistic future for Morty. 

"Here, Morty!" Said Robbie in a hushed tone as she met up with Morty after the speech. She drew a wand from her pocket surreptitiously. "Take this and wield it in the name of great Rathma!"

Morty took one look at the wand and almost fainted. "Robbie! This is a Necromancer's Bone Wand of Lightning! It cost heaps, if I'm not mistaken………. " He was at a loss for words. Robbie, despite being the daughter of late Duke Roskello, was just as hard up as he was. "How did you………." 

Robbie merely shrugged. A demonic gleam, however, entered her eyes. "Mind you, it's a temporary loan all right? If you don't give it back to me, I'll hate you forever!"

"But what if I can't come back?"

"Silly Ass! A true necromancer does not fear death!"

"Only when it's happening to other people………." Muttered Morty, much to his instantaneous regret. He did not catch Robbie's expression, as heads suddenly turned all over the Hall as two figures, Morty's mentors Mandor and Azote, entered. Morty suspected they were bookies, as he was aware of gold pieces and paper slips being exchanged between them and the other necromancers at a high rate.

"Mr. Wynmorte." Said Mandor. "We shall now escort you to the monastery." 

"Is it too late now to wager a small sum on myself?" Mumbled Morty, swaying a little. 

"Haha, you do know how to jest." Said Azote, his smirk unmoving. "Let's go."

Morty was aware that now was the time for a true necromancer to make a significant last statement. He opted for the practical. "Take care of father for me!" He yelled after himself to Robbie. 

"Don't worry!" 

To be continued……….


End file.
